


Luminous Particles

by StHoltzmann



Series: New Toys [8]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Candy, F/F, Fingerfucking, Flapjacks, Halloween, I'm sorry this is so long, Pancakes, Science Girlfriends, Sex Toys, Stupid Science Puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8116666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StHoltzmann/pseuds/StHoltzmann
Summary: The promised Halloween party is about to happen--and, more importantly, the afterparty. You don't know what to expect. What will it be like to meet the other Ghostbusters? What are you going to find out about Holtzmann, and your relationship, and yourself?At least there will be candy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You can set the mood with [Holtzmann's Halloween party playlist (abridged) on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/stholtzmann/playlist/53ICGjRT1D5BDS8ULHvufQ).
> 
> This story is significantly less kinky than the others, so don't say I didn't warn you! And it's super long. I couldn't find much I wanted to cut, and it didn't make sense to break it up. So here it is.

Halloween is five days from today.

Three days ago, Jillian Holtzmann collapsed in front of you, and you had the scariest, strangest, most stressful, and ultimately best night of your life.

Two days ago, when you both finally woke up, the hurricane was over, the water was slowly receding, and you cajoled her into getting an actual medical examination. Then you shared a slightly awkward kiss (there might have been a slight bumping of teeth), she went to the Ghostbusters headquarters, and you went home.

Yesterday, the power came back on. Holtzmann texted you that the Ghostbusters were off to meet with the mayor about the difficult bust the night of the storm. And you remembered that you were supposed to present your current research in an interdisciplinary postdoc seminar. The university wasn’t badly affected by the storm, and unfortunately for you, nothing this week has been cancelled.

Today, you’re checking your hair and clothes in a bathroom on campus. You spent all of yesterday and last night pulling together your data into something that sounds like you’re making progress (you are, you just weren’t ready to demonstrate how). Deep breaths. It’s going to be OK, you tell yourself. And you’re off to the seminar.

Glancing into the lecture hall,you can see a pretty good turnout for the seminar. You toss back a can of coffee, put it in the recycling, and walk up to your seat at the table on the speakers’ dais like you’ve had a perfectly normal week.

It’s hard to concentrate on your colleagues’ presentations. You don’t actually know when you’re going to see Holtzmann again, and you wish you did. You and she have definitely started _something_ , but you’re not entirely sure what it is, and you need to figure it out. And your body misses her.

Someone repeats your name and you look up. It’s your turn; you’re the last speaker and everyone is waiting on you expectantly. You suppress the urge to apologize; you hate showing your mostly male colleagues any moment of weakness. And you have a presentation to give. “Thank you,” you say, adjusting the microphone on the table. You quickly flip your tablet open to display your notes, and as you do, you see movement in the back of the room.

It’s Holtzmann. She’s just slipped in and is leaning against the back wall, arms folded. She’s dressed to the nines—as far as you’re concerned—in a moss-green dress shirt, a tailored charcoal waistcoat, a tie or perhaps a scarf tied like one (it’s hard to tell from across the room), and dark blue trousers. Probably some snappy shoes, too, if you had to guess.

You notice all this in a fraction of a second, and hope no one else notices your slight pause. Time to channel some of that Holtzmann confidence. You square your shoulders, lift your chin slightly, and dive directly into your talk.

Although you can’t keep from glancing at Holtzmann once in a while, you handle your material and the questions at the end well. You’re gratified to receive a round of more than perfunctory applause.

The audience breaks apart into clusters of further discussion. By the time you’ve gotten out of your seat and gathered your things. Holtzmann is gone. The post-presentation discussion will go on for a while. If you slip out now, maybe you can catch her and still come back.

You make vague “gotta go do a thing, be right back” gestures to a couple of people trying to catch your eye, and you’re almost out the door when someone catches your arm. You turn around, surprised and irritated, but it’s the professor who’s your mentor.

“I saw her watching you back there,” she says with no preamble. “You need to be very, very careful. Keep your names apart in publications, and don’t let her anywhere near our labs. If there were to be a repeat of the incident at CERN…well. You don’t want to be a postdoc forever. And you don’t want to wind up as an adjunct at a junior college in North Dakota.”

You have no idea what to say to this, but she doesn’t seem to expect a response. She lets you go and returns to the crowd.

Finally, you’re able to actually slip out into the hall. There’s nobody in either direction and you sigh in disappointment. You must have taken too long.

Then you hear the creak of the stairwell door, and spot a beckoning finger. You can’t keep the smile off your face.

As soon as you’re in reach, Holtzmann pulls you into the chilly, concrete stairwell, thrusts her hands into your hair, and kisses you—hard, and with a lot of tongue. When she finally lets you go, you have to steady yourself on the stair railing. “I m-missed you too,” you stammer.

“Oh, I did miss you, but that greeting was for your talk,” Holtzmann corrects you. She puts her hands on your waist and leans in to whisper in your ear. “That was _super_ _hot_.”

“You’re killin’ me, Holtz. I gotta go back in there in a minute.” You try to compose yourself. “You really came here for my talk?”

“Oh no, I was here for the dude before you. ‘Liquid metal walls for fusion reactors,’ right?” She winks broadly.

“Rude.” You take a good look at Holtzmann’s goofy, beautiful face. The doctor had said to leave the glued cut on her face unbandaged, but it’s mostly hidden by the curls that she seems to have combed forward more than usual. “How’re your injuries?”

Holtzmann shrugs. “Fine, other than the flesh-eating bacteria. Named ‘em Bob.”

You narrow your eyes at her.

“Pffft. Fine. I’m fine,” she says. She wrinkles her nose. “Though I don’t really like being here, ‘cause of how they treated Erin.”

“How they—ohhhh.” You kind of remember hearing something about the abrupt exit of Dr. Gilbert, even though that’s not your department.

“You know the Halloween party is the day after tomorrow, right?”

“The 29th? Really? Even though Halloween is on a Saturday?”

“Yeah, Patty figures it’s ‘safer.’” Slightly exasperated finger quotes.

“And costumes are required, right?” you ask. How’re you going to get something good together that quickly?

Holtzmann grins. “At least for the official party.”

“…Right.” You have a lot more questions, but now’s not the time.

“Gotta jet,” says Holtzmann. “Got things baking at HQ.”

“OK. Have fun!” There’s an awkward pause; you two don’t have a goodbye routine yet. Finally, Holtzmann gives your hand a squeeze and kisses you lightly, then heads toward the stairs. You reach for the door back into the hall, but steal a peek back at her shoes. Blue and burgundy spectators. Nice.

On the way home, you’re idly turning over some of your colleagues’ turns of phrase from their presentation, when you suddenly remember Holtzmann’s rapid-fire, awkward statement from the night of the hurricane:

_It took Abby and then Erin and Patty to show me what love is, and what a family’s love can be, but just like exotic matter, when you think you’ve got a handle on one kind, along comes another, and I—I’ve discovered a new one. And I like it, and I want to learn more about it._

You haven’t had a lot of time to really process that night. And you hadn’t really thought through exactly what she said—at the time, you were in a haze of confusion that rapidly switched to shocked delight. Now it occurs to you that she didn’t just say “I like you and surprise, I also want to make out with you.” No, she essentially said “I’ve discovered a new kind of love.” Love.

All jokes about lesbian second dates aside, that’s…a thing you’re going to have to think about. You wonder if Holtzmann moves this fast with all of her girlfriends.

Come to think of it, you two haven’t even really been on a date. And there are a lot of conversations that you haven’t had with her. Basic information about your and her lives, tastes, and all that other getting-to-know-you stuff.

But does it matter? However things wind up, you know for sure that your life will always be divided into BHH and AHH: Before Holtzmann Happened, and After Holtzmann Happened.

Anyway, you have other things to think about right now. Like, what on earth are you wearing to the Halloween party?

* * *

Thursday afternoon. As soon as it seems safe to head home, you’re out the lab door. New Yorkers seem to have mixed feelings about Halloween this year. Are ghosts and spectral demons and whatnot taboo now that (more) people believe they’re real? Or are they just scarier and thus even more appropriate? Is scaring away evil spirits by looking scary a practice that actually works and needs to be revived? All that’s a metaphysical-sociocultural argument that you don’t have time for right now.

Trying to figure out a costume was agonizing. You don’t really know what Holtzmann likes, other than seemingly random pop culture properties, eclectic music, food in tubes, and science. And you.

Anyway, now you need to change into your costume. In the end you wound up going with the Bowler as played by Janeane Garofalo in _Mystery Men_ , a weird little movie from the 90s. This lets you wear relatively normal clothes (with pants!) and makeup, and all you really had to add were a couple pieces of fake green hair, a vinyl bowling bag from a secondhand shop, and a skull “bowling ball”—one novelty plastic skull, one clear acrylic globe, and a fistful of LEDs programmed to cycle through the rainbow. Stick it onto a black false bottom with some clear glue, pop it into the bowling bag on top of your stuff, and you’re covered.

Now you’re just going to…casually go meet all of the Ghostbusters. And somehow get away to make sure Holtzmann gets a tiny fraction of what you owe her.

No pressure.

The sun is dropping low in the autumn sky. As you walk up to the imposing firehouse for the first time, you realize that you don’t even know what Holtzmann has told her colleagues about you. Or if she’s told them anything about you.

It’ll be an adventure.

There’s a button and an intercom grille by the door, so you do the obvious thing and wait a moment. Then a woman’s voice—but definitely not Holtzmann’s: “Sorry, we’re closed, so unless it’s urgent—I'm talking a Type III at the very least—I’m gonna have to ask you to come back later or send us a message, OK?”

“Um…” How do you explain who you are? Do they even know Holtzmann invited you?

There’s a scrabbling noise from the other end, and then Holtzmann’s voice shouts through the intercom: “Hey! Get in here!” You can hear muffled confusion behind her.

The door buzzes and clicks. You let yourself in.

They’re not on the first floor, and the second floor is a jumbled hybrid of what’s obviously Holtzmann’s lab and shelves and shelves of old books. But there’s light and music (some sort of weird “Doctor Who” theme remix) coming from the third floor. The scent of hot spiced cider and burnt sugar gets stronger as you make your way up the stairs.

You hardly have a foot in the room when you’re tackled by a flying blur. There’s a confused split second where you think “That can’t be Holtzmann; Holtzmann doesn’t have black hair!” But then her mouth lands on yours and you know that it’s Holtzmann. You kiss her back until you realize that there are other people in the room. You regain your balance and attempt to gracefully disentangle yourself. You get a quick moment to take in Holtzmann’s outfit: spiky black wig, red leather jacket, (rather low cut) black tank top, long thin scarf wound around her neck, (very tight) jeans, a low-slung studded black belt…Joan Jett?

So. Here you are in a room lavishly decorated with orange and black balloons, streamers, framed Victorian silhouettes, candles, and other Halloween decor. Sparkling LEDs are everywhere, and even the kitchen cabinets in the back have bat cutouts flying across them. And there are three costumed women staring at you, and one beefy man—dressed as a box of fries, for the record—who is holding a novelty bouncy ball (with an eye in it) right up to his glasses.

Into the shocked silence, he says “That is so cool! How do they get that in there? And how much do they pay you for your eyeball?” He bounces it on the floor confidently. It shoots directly into his face and knocks his glasses to the floor. He staggers back. “Cool!”

Abby Yates—at least, the one you think is Abby Yates—puts what looks like a bowl of pumpkin soup down very slowly. She wipes her hands on a napkin, adjusts her glasses, and says, carefully, “Holtzmann. Is there, perhaps, something that you’ve been meaning to tell us?”

Holtzmann has one arm slung around your neck and the other cocked jauntily on her hip, and she’s grinning like mad. “Wha—? Oh! Whoops.” She introduces you by name and even though the situation is clearly awkward—regardless of whether Holtzmann and the dude-person realize it—you still feel a thrill every time she says your name.

“Uh-huh. Nice to meet you,” says Abby. She’s cutely short and round, with pale skin and dark brown hair. You can’t figure out what her costume is. There’s a can of peas on her head, for one thing. But also, you get the distinct feeling that the sharp eyes behind the trendy glasses are judging you.

“This is Erin,” Abby says, gesturing to a taller, slightly red-faced woman with a wineglass in her hand.

Erin is wearing a dress that looks like it’s from the 1950s—all nipped waist and full skirt—with matching heels and cat-eye glasses. Her auburn hair is styled in a retro way, and you have no idea who she’s supposed to be. But she steps forward and shakes your hand gently. “Welcome,” she says. You can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“And this is Patty,” Abby continues.

Patty is tall and statuesque, and she’s made extra-imposing by the white tux with tails and white top hat that she’s wearing. She smiles at you and gives you a brief hug. “This is going to be real interesting,” she whispers in your ear.

“And finally…Kevin.” Abby gestures toward the blond man-slab.

The box of fries looks up and waves cheerily. “I’m a Ghostbuster too! Are you Holtzmann’s girlfriend?” he asks, in a blithe Australian accent.

There’s an eruption of “Kevin!” and “Kevin! That’s rude!” and “Kevin, you can’t just ask that!”

Holtzmann tries to speak, but the cacophony is too much. She reaches behind a table, pulls out a whiteboard and a hot pink dry-erase marker, and scrawls GIRLFRIEND, plus an arrow pointing toward you. “You guys!” She waves it over her head.

They read the sign.

Patty breaks the sudden silence. “Well, how about that.” She gives you an electric grin. “Abby, you’re going to have to pay up!”

Abby gives Patty a look. “… _You’ve_ known her for how long now? And _I’ve_ known her for how long now? So how in the heck is it that you were right?”

(“I didn’t think it was particularly appropriate to bet,” Erin says to you and Holtzmann, _sotto voce_.)

“I thought you said ‘Taking that bet would be like shooting fish in a burrito!’” Kevin says to Erin, with a faintly puzzled air.

“I…that’s not even…uh.” Erin looks deeply flustered and drinks the last of her wine. “I’ll go get you two some treats!” She hurriedly clicks away toward a table that’s overburdened with Halloween-themed food.

“I don’t even know which answer she thought was obvious,” Holtzmann stage-whispers behind her hand.

“Abby, darlin’, I told you she was acting funny,” Patty says airily.

“I—oh my god, are _you_ why she actually went to a doctor?” Abby points at you and then smacks herself in the forehead. “Dang it! I thought Holtz was maturing or something.”

Holtzmann rolls her eyes. “I’m hurt that you’d think that,” she informs Abby. “But it was a good thing she was there that night.” Holtzmann pulls you toward her with the arm that’s still looped casually around your shoulders and kisses you on the side of your head, leaving your face tingling. “Super good.”

Erin returns and hands you an orange-and-purple plate piled high with fudge, a caramel apple with a bright green ooze of glaze dripped down its sides, a cupcake sprinkled with candy bats, a cake pop that looks like an eyeball, cookies shaped like bony fingers, and a dozen other things. “I don’t know what you like, so I got you one of everything, and also a plate of all the savory snacks, which I’ll put right here, and a cup of punch, and the wine and beer and pumpkin ale and the real food are over there, so I hope there’s something you like.”

“Um…thank you,” you say.

“Settle down, Erin,” says Patty. “We’re the skeptical parents in this scenario, and she’s the nervous suitor.” She winks at you.

You laugh nervously. Then Abby asks, “So, how did you two meet?” and your laugh turns into a choking spasm. You put the plate down and try to cover your reaction by upending the cup of punch into your mouth with both hands.

“Oh, it’s simple,” says Holtzmann easily. “She’s in the APAM department at You-Know-Where, and she was helping me out with an extracurricular research project. She’s a smart cookie! My favorite flavor…” Holtzmann wiggles her eyebrows at her colleagues and takes a nibble of your earlobe, causing you to have to hold onto her in order to stay upright.

Abby and Erin both look impressed. “Holtz let you help?” Abby mutters. “That might be more shocking than the whole ’suddenly, girlfriend’ thing.”

“Two things,” says Patty. “One: Holtzy, you couldn’t’ve picked a damn librarian or something? Somebody I could talk to? And two: We’re gonna need to have a little conversation about PDA, you hear what I’m saying?”

Holtzmann squints thoughtfully. “You mean like…the Apple Newton? Always thought that was underrated.”

“…Baby girl, we’ll talk later.” Patty shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

“Come on, food and tour time.” Holtzmann tugs your hand and takes you around the firehouse at a fast pace, excitedly explaining all the things they (well, mostly she) have added. Her enthusiasm is pretty adorable, not to mention how pleased she seems to have you here.

Kevin, clumsy in his french fries costume, passes you as Holtzmann and you are on your way back to the third floor. “What’s up with—“ you start to ask.

“Greatest unsolved mystery of the universe,” Holtzmann says. She’s going up ahead of you and you’re trying to keep your eyes on on the stairs and not the view that her costume’s tight jeans are offering you.

Back upstairs, there’s what passes for small talk as Abby and Erin describe what they’re working on. Patty admires your costume, ghostly bowling ball and all, and you ask her about her historical research. Holtzmann tries to get you to tell them about how your work might be able to improve their ghostbusting work. You mostly try to keep the focus off of you.

After a little while, Abby pokes Holtzmann in the arm and says “Hey, go see what Kevin’s up to down there. I don’t want him breaking anything.”

“But…Oingo Boingo!” Holtzmann whines. “Dead Man’s Party” has just come on.

“You literally _made_ this playlist. You can listen to it any time you want!”

“Oh, all right.” Holtzmann jogs downstairs, and suddenly Abby, Patty, and Erin close in on you. That’s an alarming development. What do they want?

“I’m going to make this quick, ‘cause I don’t really like making people uncomfortable,” says Abby, looking right at you. “I thoroughly disapprove of that warning speech crap that sitcom dads do to their daughters’ boyfriends, but you know what? I’m kinda starting to sympathize. You seem nice enough, and smart, but I swear, if you do anything to hurt Holtzmann…”

“I will punch you, for one thing,” says Erin, very seriously. It sounds funny coming from her, particularly dressed as she is, but you feel 100% sure that she means it.

“Holtzy always seems like she’s in control, but she’s human. Breakable.” Patty pauses and exchanges a meaning-laden glance with Abby, the significance of which escapes you. “And she’s…unique. Unusual. You hear what I’m saying? You want a ticket for that ride, you better not be planning to wimp out at the first little bump.”

“I…I know she’s human,” you say. Do you ever. “I’ll honestly admit to you that I don’t know where this is going, but I’m good at handling ‘unique.’ And I love ‘unusual.’ And I don’t have any plans to go anywhere.”

Abby seems to soften a little. “OK. Thank you for being honest. And uh…good luck with her many, many quirks.” She gives you a double-dimpled smile. “Hope we didn’t scare you off. This is all a new thing. A surprise.”

Erin nods, and Patty murmurs, “That’s for real.”

“It’s all been a surprise to me, too,” you say. A serious understatement.

There’s an awkward pause, and then Abby leans over and yells down the stairs. “What’s taking so long down there?”

Holtzmann shouts up, “Kevin’s waiting for trick-or-treaters! I told him that’s not tonight. He doesn’t believe me!”

“To be fair, last week Holtzmann told him that he’d be able to shoot ectoplasm from his nose if he ate enough kiwis,” Erin observes quietly.

“Yeah, there is that,” Abby says. She raises her voice again. “Kevin! Get back up here. Trick-or-treating is on Saturday!”

“He doesn’t even have any candy!” Holtzmann shouts, indignant. Kevin mumbles something and then Holtzmann reappears, tugging him behind her. She immediately drops Kevin’s wrist, makes a beeline for you, and sits down on a stool, tugging you onto her lap. She snuggles her chin onto your shoulder and kicks the floor. You both spin lazily around.

“Besides you, those are the only other three—OK, four—people able to handle this much super-concentrated awesome,” she says into your ear. There’s a thoughtful pause, and then she suddenly licks your neck. “Oops,” she says, without a hint of contrition. “It was just…right there.”

“We’re…uh…going to get some private time later, right?” you whisper.

“I guar-on-tee,” she says, in a ridiculous accent.

Behind you, the other Ghostbusters are quickly getting deep into a Halloween debate. Patty’s torn over whether people ought to dress as historical figures who might actually turn out be vengeful ghosts, or whether sticking to fiction for frightening costumes is safer for everyone these days. Erin thinks women should boycott the “sexy noun” genre and consider mythological costumes. Patty’s all for it, but Abby wonders if imitating ancient deities might turn out to be a bad idea too. There is an alarming amount of sociocultural (Patty) and scientific (Erin and Abby) jargon being slung, interjected with happy non sequiturs (Kevin).

“Halloween costumes are supposed to be unsettling. Eerie,” Patty says. “You know I love me some cute things, but Halloween is not the time for it! Holtzmann’s all right because Joan Jett—even if she is still alive—looks like a freakin’ vampire. Also because Holtzy looks so different from usual. That’s pretty darned unsettling if you ask me.” She barely pauses for breath. “Our guest there? Killing it! I mean, she’s dressed as a character who has her murdered dad’s skull in a haunted bowling ball! On point. And me—Gladys Bentley is part of Harlem’s lost history, and she had a tragic life in a lot of ways. (I mean, not enough to want to come back and murder us. I’m pretty sure.) But Erin, if you take the crinoline out from that dress, it just looks like your normal clothes. Well…maybe a little less buttoned-up than usual.”

“But Mary Sherman Morgan was the first female rocket scientist—she invented Hydyne—and she didn’t have a college degree! And she’s deceased, so shouldn’t dressing like a deceased person count?” Erin sounds offended.

“She hasn’t even been dead all that long,” says Patty dismissively. “Though, OK, yes, I do appreciate the historical nature of your choice.”

“Thank you,” says Erin.

“Kevin, your costume isn’t spooky or scary at all! Just kind of goofy.” Patty is clearly on a roll.

Kevin shakes his head. “Mine’s _super_ -scary! Imagine a box of fries walking around by itself. Scary.” He is entirely serious.

“…I guess you do have a point, somehow,” Patty says, rubbing her temples. “But then there’s Abby. Abby! What is even going on with you? You’ve got a can of peas on your head with a coupon taped to it. Is that even a costume, or is that some kind of weird-ass experiment?”

“I’ve got the scariest costume here!” Abby sniffs.

“I hate to admit it, Abby, but even I have no idea what that’s all about,” says Erin. “How is it scary?”

“Ohhhh!” You jump off of Holtzmann’s lap and point at Abby. “She’s right! Abby’s costume _is_ a real nightmare.”

Erin, Patty, and Kevin stare at you blankly. Though that may be Kevin’s normal look, now that you think of it.

“It’s a _high p-value_ ,” you say. “So, most likely, your experiment bombed.” You pull a horrified face.

“Oh god.” Erin collapses onto a chair as though her will to live has fled. “Puns! Why did it have to be puns?”

Patty sighs. “At least that’s something I’ve heard of. Some Nate Silver book, I guess.”

Abby cackles and high-fives you. “OK, Holtz. I guess you did good. I’m even willing to hear about her research ideas sometime.”

Holtzmann comes up behind you and squeezes you around your waist. You glance over your shoulder at her. She’s grinning smugly, like the cat that got the cream. The conversation picks up again, this time with you in it, and it’s a lot easier than it was earlier in the evening.

Erin is trying to describe a ghost hunt that she and Abby went on one Halloween in junior high when an old-school rap song, “Freaks Come Out at Night,” starts playing. Immediately, one of the most enthusiastic—and odd—dance parties you’ve ever seen breaks out.

You do your best to keep up. You can’t keep your eyes off Holtzmann, though, and stick to her orbit. As she writhes past Erin, Holtzmann taps her on the shoulder. “Hey, Erin—which way _did_ you think was a sure bet?” she asks. “I’m taking notes.”

“I’m never ever going to tell you that,” Erin says firmly. She shimmies off in Kevin’s direction.

Every goofy move Holtzmann’s got is something you could watch forever. Chatting with everyone turned out to be fun, and you feel like you’re finally getting to know Holtzmann a little better. You can tell that your meeting her little family was important to her, and you’re glad she has this group of people who really care about her.

Now, though, it’s getting more difficult to stop thinking about the “afterparty.”

Holtzmann seems to be on the same wavelength as you. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” she says to you. “Hey guys, we want to go over some stuff in the lab, so we’re gonna head out. It’s sensitive stuff, so…”

“Sure. We’ll keep out,” says Abby, and the others say goodnight to you and Holtzmann.

You’ve gotten down only a few stairs when you hear Kevin call out, “Be safe—use a condom!”

“Oh my god, Kevin!” Sounds like Erin…and now that sounds like Patty and Abby trying and failing to stifle their laughter.

“OK, apparently that wasn’t as smooth as I thought it was,” admits Holtzmann, trying not to laugh too.

“Sounds like they all know,” you reply. “Awkward…They won’t be able to hear us, right?”

“We could use an isolation chamber, but ehhhh. They’re used to weird noises. And they’ll head home soon. Kevin’s got an early hide-and-seek team practice tomorrow.”

You’re still trying to figure out if you heard Holtzmann correctly as she lets you into the lab again. She locks the door and pulls down a screen over its small window.

It was all a blur earlier, but now you have a chance to really take in the lab. The air has the electric, metallic scent that you associate with Holtzmann, as well as a deeper layer of old book smell.Usually, checking out the wild assortment of parts and projects would be the first thing on your mind. (Is that plans for a tractor beam? With two Post-It notes on it, one saying “COMPLETE” and one saying “BORING!”?) Right now, other things seem more important.

Holtzmann pries her boots off, then takes a seat in a rolling chair and pushes off the wall. You catch her as she careens into you. “Holtzy, are you…really okay for all this? The dancing and now…uh…”

“You're right. I’m an invalid. Please help me out of these jeans.” She flaps her hands mock-helplessly.

You’re not going to say no to that. You reach down to unbuckle her studded belt and unzip her jeans; you’re nose to nose with her, looking right into her eyes. Trying to remember to breathe. “The first couple days were suboptimal, yeah, but c’mon. I’m not rock-climbing here.” Holtzmann grins, as cocky as ever. She pulls away and peels off the jeans. “I do not get the appeal of these,” she grumbles. She shrugs carefully out of the red leather jacket and tosses it on top of the wardrobe. Her black wig, to your relief, was abandoned earlier, during the wild conga’ing to “Jump in the Line.”

Now she’s just in the tight black tank (very obviously with no bra) and a pair of black boyshorts. Not enough room for boxers in those jeans.

“So, uh…”

“I don’t have any big plans. I _do_ have a couple new things to show off. Believe it or not, I'm not a scheduler. I'm a freestyler.”

“Somehow, I’m not shocked. And unstructured is great, fine—I mean, someday I'd like to actually just…go on a date with you.”

Holtzmann looks at you sideways. Operating on instinct, you clarify. “I mean, like, go to a lecture series, or get a beer and see who can be first to find a mistake in a study in _Nature_ , or stay in and try to work out the physics of _Steven Universe_ , or watch one of those billion-parter stories from 1960s _Doctor Who_ while hopped up on jelly babies, or…”

“Oh. That sounds OK.”Holtzmann fiddles with her ear, looking almost shy. “I…I do wanna hang out with you, and I wanna learn what makes you tick. I s’pose we did skip a few stages.”

What kind of date was she envisioning before? You're getting some strange vibes off of her and you're not sure if you should be worried or not.

“This is a great stool.“ She releases you and glides away. “But let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

In a corner of the lab, there’s an area walled off with bookshelves. Holtzmann tips a book back and the shelf swings in.

“Seriously? Did that just happen?” you ask.

Holtzmann grins. “I got to plan this floor—well, most of it. So who _wouldn’t_ put in a secret room?…That everyone knows about, but it’s the principle of the thing. Gotta have it.”

You have to agree.

Inside, the semi-secret room has a futon (of course), a tall filing cabinet, a lamp, a cheap vinyl wardrobe with some clothing in it, and not a lot else. The futon’s blankets are, more or less, in order, and there are no Pringles lids or pizza boxes to be seen. “Looks like you don't use this much,” you observe. “I’m guessing you usually just fall asleep wherever you're working when you're here.”

Holtzmann laughs. “ _Nolo contendere._ ” She plops down on the futon, legs crossed, and you join her.

“So, I believe your turn is long overdue. I mean, not that we have to take turns, just that...I'd like to return the favor a little,” you say. A strange expression crosses her face, but you plough ahead. “You have an unfair advantage, though! You’ve got tons of data on me and you know almost everything I like, but I don’t know anything about your preferences. So, what do you like?”

“Ummm…” You can practically see Holtzmann digging for a quip, but finally she gives up and shrugs. “When it comes to _mano a mano_? I dunno.”

You feel your forehead crease without meaning to. You remember that she’d indicated she thought she was unsuitable for most women, but…surely, with her beautiful brain, beautiful face, and everything else, she must have had a few relationships, and plenty of hookups. If she’d walked into women’s night at any dance club you went to in college, she would have been swarmed. “OK, hang on. It’s been a while? Or…?”

Holtzmann’s fingers are back on her earlobe again. “Just not something I got around to much. I mean, I messed around with some girls in college, but they were just on another planet. Or I was.” She makes antennae of her fingers and makes alien noises. “By the time I hit grad school, there were way more interesting things to do. Sex didn’t even make the bottom of the list.”

Huh. But her flirtiness…well, maybe it’s a defense mechanism or something. And this would explain the others’ reaction to you earlier. Still… “But Holtzmann—Jillian—you’re 30! And you’re…” You make wild “look at this amazing woman here!” gestures.

Holtzmann scratches the back of her neck awkwardly.

Ack. You weren’t trying to make her feel bad. “I mean, it’s totally OK. I’m not judging you; everyone has their own timetable and preferences. I bet you left a swathe of devastated girls pining for you and just never knew it…But still, how can you be so good at, you know, ‘the research’?!” This was really not an eventuality that you had prepared for.

Holtzmann grins. “Yeah, sometimes I even impressed myself. I did a ton of research! All the studies I could find. Membership in Pink Label. Every episode of _Crash Pad._ And it’s not like I didn’t do some personal testing. I’m not ace, just normally otherwise occupied—funny story, my first and only roommate was ace. Now she studies non-reproductive sex among bonobos. Super cool.”

“I…see. Well, then, I’ll be asking a lot of questions. I mean, if you want to…”

“My to-do list has definitely rearranged itself. Or, to put it another way…” Holtzmann leans forward and gives you a long, deep kiss; one that leaves you off-balance even though you’re sitting on the futon. Then she licks from the corner of your jaw up to your ear, and says softly, “The new things I whipped up are in the top drawer. What we do with ‘em is up to you.”

“Ooh…intriguing. But I have other stops to make first.” You touch Holtzmann’s cheek, and she smiles. “First I want to know, is any part of you off-limits for touching?”

Holtzmann starts to shake her head, then stops. “Yeah…N-no hands on my throat, OK? Your mouth is probably fine though.”

You don’t ask. Either she’ll tell you someday or she won’t; you don’t want to pry. Which is not to say that you don’t feel a pang at the thought of whatever awful thing might have happened to her in the past. “Everywhere else is OK, then?” You kiss her bare shoulder.

“‘OK’ is not strong enough,” she says.

Enthusiastic consent is the best kind. "If anything feels weird or uncomfortable, you'd better tell me," you say. You dip down for a kiss and gently push her back into the pillows, until she's lying back with her head and shoulders a little elevated. You find yourself wanting to say, in all sincerity, romance novel cliches like "I just want to look at your face" (you do) and "Every part of you is perfect" (it is). Chances are, they'd just make Holtzmann laugh.

Instead, you just kiss every part of her face (well, every part that’s not injured). You got to do it once before, but that wasn’t nearly enough. That slightly quirky nose, the corners of her mouth, the space between her eyebrows where those two lines appear when she's concentrating, her cheeks (possibly turning a little more pink)…There’s a lot to kiss.

"I approve of all of this,” Holtzmann says. She slides her hands under your top and up your back. You just keep kissing, working your way around to her left ear. You trace the outside of her ear with your tongue and take her earlobe in between your lips, the better to lick and nibble it. “Ohhh…why does that feel so good? Human wiring is _so weird_ ,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. Her fingers tighten on your skin. 

You kiss her chin and then gently, slowly, give her neck an experimental lick or two. Her muscles stiffen minutely, and you stop mid-lick. She kisses your forehead and you feel her body ease. “'s OK.” That’s your cue to lick and kiss her throat and the side of her neck. Her skin is soft here, and you can feel her pulse beating quickly under your lips. You glance up at her and see that her eyes are almost shut. “Conflicting impulses,” she mumbles. “I want to watch you…” Her eyes open and you note the dilation of her pupils. You’re no biologist, but you know arousal when you see it.

You shift back a little, and Holtzmann’s hands slide down to your hips. Reaching out with both hands, you let your fingertips touch her face, her lips, her collarbone, and her shoulders. Goosebumps arise on her skin. “John Glenn’s luminescent particles,” Holtzmann says, eyes half-lidded. “Remember, in _The Right Stuff_? That’s what it feels like. Except those turned out to be flakes of frost, and you’re…the opposite.”

This is definitely yet another side of Holtzmann. You wonder how many more facets are left to discover.

Without even realizing it, you’ve reached for Holtzmann’s breasts. They’re soft under her tank top, and the feel of them in your hands is addicting. You cup each one in a hand and let your fingers brush across her nipples. She gives a little sigh and you feel her fingers twitch.

“Can this go away?” you ask, plucking at the fabric over her nipples.

“Banish it,” Holtzmann says. You help her sit up a little, and then pull the top over her head, mindful of the injury near her ribs. And now you can really, fully look at her. She’s pale—all that time indoors, you guess—but it suits her, and it makes it easy for you to see when she flushes. And it emphasizes the soft pink of her nipples. Her pendant sits on her breastbone, and you touch it lightly.

Holtzmann puts her hand over yours, covering the pendant. “You left this on me, that night.” She tilts her head a little.

"Yeah. It wasn't in the way of your breathing, and I don't know how important it is to you. So I left it there, in case you reached for it."

Holtzmann smiles slightly. “Thanks.” She slips it off and tucks it under a corner of the futon. Another thing that maybe you’ll find out about someday.

You can’t help yourself. “Is this really happening?” You run your hands over her exposed breasts.

Holtzmann grins. “It better be. Now, I propose we achieve nudity of equal magnitude.”

Oh, yes, that can be achieved. You want nothing so much as you want to feel your skin on hers. Quickly, you strip off your top, but Holtzmann stops you when you reach behind you to undo your bra. “May I?”

“S-sure.”

Holtzmann rests her head on your chest and reaches around you. You can feel her fingers working, and then she triumphantly pulls off your bra. “For the win!”

“Good work.” You get your own pants off and return to your exploration, using both your fingers and your mouth. Her stomach, the insides of her thighs, then the backs of her knees—that one makes her shiver. There are a few scars here and there on her legs, like the ones you noticed on her sides that night. You wonder if her hands…You gently take her hands off of your shoulders and look at them closely. There are the scars that you’d expect from anyone who works with power tools and heavy lab equipment, and a few others. You kiss her knuckles and then her palms. All of those scars are part of who she is.

You reposition yourself between Holtzmann’s legs, so that you can bring your mouth to her nipples more easily. First the left one—your tongue, soft and gentle and then fast. And then your mouth, sucking it in just a little and teasing it with your tongue. And then, lightly, your teeth, and then more of everything. Somewhere in there you become aware that Holtzmann is making noise for the first time. She’s groaning, and you lift your head up to make sure it’s in a good way. From her facial expression, you’d have to say yes. And as though to clear it up, Holtzmann breathes “Ah…don’t stop.”

So you don’t, and you make sure that her other breast gets the same attention. Holtzmann is still making soft noises, and that delicious sound is making you more and more aroused yourself. Her legs are moving around you as though they’re not under her control anymore. “Note to self,” you say. “She likes this.”

“Correct,” Holtzmann says. “But now my mouth is jealous.” She pulls you toward her and returns the favor to your breasts. Focusing hard, you manage to slip one of your hands down to her underwear.

“Is this OK?” you ask, fingers poised on the edge of the fabric.

Holtzmann nods emphatically—with a nipple in her teeth, which gives you a pleasantly sharp jolt.

You slide your hand in and feel your way toward the center. Your fingers touch soft hair and you hear her give a tiny gasp. She lets go of your breasts and drops her head back on the pillow. You shift, straddling a thigh so that you can more easily reach her with your hand. Her warm skin pressing into your crotch, even through your underwear, feels so good. Holtzmann wiggles her thigh back and forth a bit and you can’t help a little laugh.

But your fingers have places to go. You stroke the hair there for a moment and consider your options. You don’t have to take her underwear off quite yet, and anyway, you like the position you’re in. You pass your hand down, cupping her mons as you go, and then your fingers touch the outer lips of her vulva. You turn your hand over, under the underwear, and slide the tips of your fingers between the labia. Holtzmann’s fingers flex on the sheets and her hips shift, moving her pelvis toward you. You let your middle finger glide along the length of her just once, from the opening of her vagina all the way to the clitoris and she wriggles again, a little more urgently.

You take your hand out of her underwear and regard your fingers. “I have empirical evidence that you are extremely aroused,” you inform her. You can feel the corners of your mouth following hers into a tiny smile.

“Whaaaat?” she says, almost inaudible yet fully sarcastic; then (louder and sillier), “Publishable results!”

“Let’s take it a little further.” You roll over to one side of her and hook your fingers into her underwear. “Lift that ass up. Please.”

She does, and you tug off the boyshorts and toss them aside.

“Ahem.” Holtzmann clears her throat and stares pointedly at your own underwear. She crooks her index fingers at you and you scoot closer, on your knees, so that she can pull yours down. And then they get flung away as well.

You straddle her thigh again. “I want to find out more about what you like, so…” You show her one, then two, and then three fingers.

“Carry on,” she says, giving you that two-fingered salute.

You lean forward over her and give her a deep kiss, then put your middle finger to work between her thighs. First, more stroking of the walls of the outer labia, and then gently exploring the inner lips. She seems to like that, but after a little while, she opens her eyes and says, “Do I have to file a request in triplicate?”

“OK, OK.”You grin and gently, slowly slide your middle finger inside of her. Briefly, you’re struck by a strong feeling of unreality—how are you here, now, with her? But then you return to the moment, feeling the wet warmth surrounding your finger.

You watch Holtzmann’s face to make sure that she’s still comfortable. She looks like she’s doing _very_ well, but you still want to check. “Is this OK?” She nods. You push your finger in as far as you can, gradually, until it’s not possible to go any further. “Still OK?” She nods again.

“OK. So, that’s one finger.” You stroke it gently in and out for a bit. Holtzmann’s hips lift up toward you. “Looks like you’re ready for another…” You pull your hand away and she gives what seems to be an inadvertent whimper. Her reactions are just about to do you in.

You push in your index and middle finger together. She gives a short grunt, but with a smile, so you go ahead and thrust the two fingers back and forth slowly. “And that’s two. So which is better—one?” You switch back to just the one. “Or two?” And you switch again.

Holtzmann, unexpectedly, giggles. “It’s just like that time I got thrown out by Abby’s optometrist!”

You give an undignified snort. “Hopefully, not _just_ like it.”

“Not even a little bit. Two is good. Let’s stick with that for now.”

Holtzmann’s hips are rising up to meet your hand when you push your fingers in each time, and soon you have a matching rhythm. You keep it going, and you lean forward to plant kisses on her stomach. She touches your hair.

“I’m going to go a little harder,” you tell her.

“Yes please.”

A little harder and a little faster it is. Also, it’s time for your other hand to reach over and involve her clitoris; your thumb could do it, but you’ll have more leverage and maneuverability with the other hand. You tease it a little bit, and then give it full attention, rubbing it in firm circles. “Not enough pressure? Too much?… Jillian, you still in there?”

Holtzmann lifts a hand in a vague attempt to communicate, and then drops it back to the futon. She licks her lips (damn, her tongue!) and finally says, “Little more?”

You’re happy to oblige. You circle a little harder, using the rest of your hand to put some pressure on the mons, and keep up your thrusting rhythm. Your arm is probably getting tired, but you’re not aware of it.

“I—I think launch is go,” Holtzmann mumbles. “Don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” you say, unable to resist mentally appending “ever.” You put a little more oomph into your thrust, trying to watch Holtzmann at the same time.

Her eyes are closed tightly. Her mouth is slightly open, with the tip of her tongue just touching her upper lip, and she’s breathing heavily. Then you see her pale skin flush pink, and you cansee the muscles in her neck tighten. Almost there. You give it all you’ve got.

You’re quickly rewarded: Holtzmann lets out a “hah!” and her hands knot in the sheets of the futon. You can feel her inner muscles contracting around your fingers as she starts to come. You don’t stop or change your rhythm; you just keep going, to see how far she can ride it out. It seems to go on for a long time, but that might be because time has stopped for you. Her face is flushed and there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and she’s more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

“Ah…OK…OK…” she says, panting. You slow down and give her clitoris a few more strokes. She shudders and squeezes her thighs together around your arm. “Oh…aftershock!” Finally, you stop, and her legs go slack. You slowly remove your fingers, and she makes an unclassifiable noise.

“C’mere,” Holtzmann says, and you slide up next to her, wet fingers and all. She opens her eyes and looks into yours, takes your face in both hands, and gives you a long, slow kiss. “That was…” She searches for words. “Freakin’ fantastic. Almost better than a great day in the lab.” Quite a compliment.

You just cuddle for a few moments, legs wrapped together, and then you notice one of Holtzmann’s hands sliding down to your butt.

Holtzmann notices you noticing, and she gives a toothy grin. “You wanna see what’s in the drawer?”

There’s only one answer to that, of course, and it’s “Yes.”

You have to stand up to get to the top drawer. Holtzmann hops up too, and holds onto you from behind as you open it. You can feel the softness of her breasts pressing against the naked skin of your back. A peek into the drawer shows you some quasi-mysterious objects. There’s a box which has 4 pieces that each look like they’re part of a strap-on, but there’s no harness or special underwear, and there are a few extra little doodads that you have no idea about whatsoever. Then there’s a small box with what looks like an ordinary buttplug, made out of stainless steel. You’re sure it probably does something you can’t even guess at. Finally, there’s a roll of no-name black duct tape…or something that resembles it.

“Hmm. What am I looking at?” you ask. “Other than more patented Holtzmann genius. I mean, I get the general idea of each one, I think…” You glance at her over your shoulder. She’s got her chin on your shoulder again—she seems to like it there—and she’s got an anticipatory gleam in her eyes.

“Pick your category,” Holtzmann says, and gives you a closed-mouth smile. OK, she’s not going to tell you anything else. Fine.

You poke the large box. “Is this…two-way?” You feel her nod, so you take the box out and close the drawer.

Holtzmann pulls you back down to the futon and gestures at the box. “Hands-free, Bluetooth, wifi…” She laughs. “Nah, just hands-free. Way more basic than the stuff you’ve tested. But more intimate. Although, hmm, Bluetooth…”

“Explain this one before you start thinking of another one!”

“Ohhh, all right. Two ends: one for the thruster and one for the thrust-ee.” She holds up two of the less curved pieces. They’re made of silicone or something, moss green and bronze swirled together. They’re shaped differently, though.

You squint at them. “Custom fitted?”

“Custom, handmade, artisanal bow-chicka-wow-wow,” says Holtzmann proudly. “There’s an innie and an outie each.”

You look at the ends that fit together. “Ah, there’s tech in here. So I guess those chips and inserts are program options, or something.”

“Temperature, vibration, etc. You got it.” She wiggles a chip between her fingers. “Let’s test-run this one. It’s s’posed to communicate with the gyroscope and the accelerometer to match pelvic movements. And I’ll pop this in too, to control vibration. But to do that, I need to know who’s using which end, you follow?”

“Oh…” What an impossible choice. Fuck Holtzmann or be fucked by her?

Thing is, there’s really no wrong answer. And besides, there will be other times. (Which is a pretty great thought all on its own.)

You pick up the “innie.” It’s got an interesting curved hook shape to it, with a wider, flatter part that’ll go outside and connect to the other half. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like this end.”

Holtzmann looks a little bit flushed again, and you catch the tiniest widening of her blue eyes. Did you take her by surprise? “P-peachy keen.” She replaces the one you’re holding with the other one. “But this one’s yours.”

“Oops. I have to say, though…I’ve never seen a two-way, hands-free one that actually worked.”

“Trust.” She winks.

“Always,” you say, and you intend it to be flippant, but it comes out serious.

Holtzmann fits the two pieces together with a click. “There’s lube in the drawer somewhere if we need it,” she says.

You sincerely hope it’s not WD-40. “Maybe we can make sure we don’t,” you suggest.

Holtzmann lays the double-headed dildo, or whatever the device technically is, aside, and you kiss her back into the pillows. You feel your own arousal surge, and the look in her eyes says the same is true for her. There’s a more intense and frenzied rush of licking, kissing, biting, and squeezing than before.

You’re both breathing hard, but not quite slowing down, when Holtzmann suddenly shifts, pushes her fingers into your hair, and firmly flips you over. Now she’s on top of you.

“W—wait a minute,” you say, once you’ve gotten ahold of yourself again. “We had a deal!”

“I have altered the deal,” Holtzmann intones. “There’s one itch I gotta scratch before we move on.”

“Jillian, how can you be so brilliant at everything and so, so bad at pillow talk?”

She makes an exaggerated sad face at you and you laugh. “I didn’t say it wasn’t _working_ ,” you clarify.

“Ha.” Holtzmann maneuvers back and pushes your legs open. “This’ll stop your backtalk.” She sticks out her tongue at you and waggles it from side to side. “Any objections?”

“…Oh. No, no obj—ooh!”

Holtzmann, as you’ve already noticed, has an agile tongue and a propensity for licking things. And she seems to know what to do with it. She sweeps her tongue up your vulva and then brings it up to your clitoris. She covers your clit entirely with her lips, and for a moment you can just feel the heat and wetness of her mouth. Then her tongue finds you again. She teases you with lazy circles and prodding, and after you whimper a little, she concentrates her efforts on strong, incessant licks up and down your clitoris. Up and down, up and down…She really has a lot of muscle in her tongue, and she’s using all of it. You can’t do much other than just lie back and let the sensations wash over you. You don’t know if she’s going to keep going until you climax or if she’s going to stop when she gets tired of it, but that’s irrelevant because it feels so good right now.

Holtzmann, though, is no quitter. She keeps up the pressure and the pattern like a metronome—not an easy thing to do with your face wedged into another person. The sensations are definitely building up to a climax. Your breathing is a little ragged, and you’re dimly aware that you’re making inarticulate noises.

The hot, wet edge of the orgasm—the kind that only happens with a tongue there—hits you and you cry out wordlessly. Your pelvis lifts off the mattress briefly and you feel, more than hear, Holtzmann making a pleased noise. She keeps going as you subside, ending with a sound kiss when you’ve fully settled again.

Holtzmann straightens up and wipes her mouth.

“God, Jillian. Just when I think I’ve seen you look as smug as you can get, you manage to look even smugger,” you groan, smiling.

“Now who’s bad at pillow talk?” she replies. She rests her head on your knee and smiles back, sweeter this time. “Oh, we’re quite a pair.”

“Everyone else in the world ought to be so jealous,” you say. Your eyes drift over to the new, still-untested toy. “That looked like a lot of work. Are you worn out?”

“Me? As if,” Holtzmann says scornfully.

“Oh, good.” You lean up to give her a kiss and then stand up, grabbing the toy as you go. You set it on the filing cabinet and then pick up a comforter, fold it, and put it over your shoulder.

Holtzmann watches you, brow intensely furrowed and lips pursed together as though you’ve caught her in the middle of trying to solve the the proton radius puzzle.

“C’mon,” you say, holding out your hands. She takes them and stands, still perplexed. You take her arms and put them around your neck, then slide your hands down to her extremely touchable ass. “Can you…”You hint by pressing up a little.

“Why not,” says Holtzmann, a curious look in her eyes and a smile growing on her lips. You lift her up and she wraps her legs around your midsection. For a moment, you just enjoy the feeling of her strong, compact body pressing 360 degrees around you. Then you carefully and, OK, awkwardly grab the double-ended device.

“Change of scenery,” you say. “Uh…make sure to tell me if any of this isn’t OK.”

Holtzmann nods and you carry her back into the lab. You’re pretty sure you saw—yeah, there it is. A less-cluttered metal counter against the wall, just wide enough for someone to sit on if they’re small, and at a particularly useful height.

You point toward it. “Is that safe?”

Holtzmann laughs throatily. “Try again, babe.”

Sigh. “Is that stuff that I can push aside without significant bodily injury?”

“Most likely.”

Holtzmann would be so damn frustrating if she weren’t so damn charming.

You clear away the most open spot with one hand and set the comforter and Holtzmann down, then push away more of the electronic odds and ends. Now there’s enough room for her position to be stable. As it were.

“Now what?” asks Holtzmann.

“Now you stay right there and I…get prepared.” The U-shaped end of the device slips into you easily; not a surprise given how very aroused you are. You hear a soft sigh and look at Holtzmann as you finish positioning it inside. She’s got her legs crossed, one arm resting on her knee and propping up her chin, and she is staring at you. She looks utterly enthralled—and hungry.

As soon as it’s situated, you feel a gentle buzzing from it, and you realize it comes not just from inside, but also from the flatter part that’s pressed up against your mons. And it has a projecting part that actually reaches all the way to your clitoris. Then there’s the startling feeling of the gyroscope kicking in, and you feel the balance and momentum of the entire device adjust with your movements. This is encouraging, so you let go of it. It stays in firmly.

“Nice,” says Holtzmann, and you have no idea whether she’s complimenting her own handiwork, you, or the scene before her.

You step toward her and put your hand on her knee. She uncrosses her legs and puts her hands on your shoulders. Suddenly, urgently, she kisses you hard. You lean forward, one hand on the wall above her head, and kiss her back just as hard. Now she has one hand behind your neck and another on your back, pulling you toward her almost desperately. You touch her between her legs with your other hand to make sure she’s physically ready, and oh, she is.

You meet her beautiful eyes with a clear question in yours. Her tongue is caught between her teeth and her chest is already heaving as she breathes. “Please,” Holtzmann says. No quips, no funny voices. Just “Please.” She closes her eyes briefly, but she doesn’t keep them closed. Instead, she looks directly into your eyes.

You gradually slide the other end into her without breaking eye contact. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and before you can stop for fear of hurting her, she exhales—a long, contented sigh. Her legs wrap around you. You flex your hips and then slowly press into her. Her nostrils flare slightly, and her fingers press into your back.

You move in and out, feeling the adjustments in the device. It lends extra momentum when you thrust forward, and the vibrations are gradually increasing. You start to build up your rhythm and Holtzmann, still holding your gaze, meets you with her hips. Her breasts move with every thrust, and you’re very aware of them, but you can’t look away from her face. Although you can move your other hand over to caress, rub, and pinch each nipple. She bites her lip and moans.

“Faster, deeper,” she whispers, and you throw yourself into it, as though you could communicate something to her through your body.

You’re breathing hard. Her wild curls fly up and she shakes against the wall with every thrust; with every thrust she grunts slightly, lips wet and parted. But she’s still watching you, and you’re still watching her. It’s intense and intimate in a way that is new to you. You reach for her hips and bring her even closer to you, leaning into her, using gravity to add to your energy.

Then you’re struck by a horrible thought. “Jillian! Am I hurting your side?” You risk a quick look down; the healing injury looks fine, and it’s not being directly touched, but…

Holtzmann shakes her head hard. Sweat rolls down her back to your fingertips. You take her at her word (well, gesture) and don’t stop.

The vibrations pressed against your clitoris—and, presumably, hers—have gotten much stronger. And then there’s the additional pressure against your clit every time you thrust forward. You’re getting close.

You can’t really tell where Holtzmann is; her eyes are still on you, but slightly unfocused and heavy-lidded. However, just looking carefully at her in this state, completely abandoned to the moment, is enough to tip you over the edge. The climax thrums through you, and her name slips out of your mouth. “ _Jillian!_ ” Still caught up in your orgasm, you crush her mouth with yours. Your tongues meet and she slips her hands up into your hair; you wrap your arms around her, bringing you together even harder.

The climax fades, but you’re no less aroused and gratified by the situation. You keep rocking into her. Holtzmann curls her fingers against your scalp and drops her head onto your shoulder, her hair tangled against your neck. You can feel the muscles of her back starting to go taut. She starts to tremble. She flings her head back, fortunately missing the wall, and says your name through clenched teeth. You keep going until you feel her hands loosen in your hair and slide down to your face.

You pull your hips back from her carefully, sliding the device out, then reach down to remove it from yourself and put it on the comforter. It’s not that you couldn’t have kept going and brought both of you to climax again, but you don’t want to push her any more than you already have.

Holtzmann—red, sweaty, disheveled, still trembling—looks a little overwhelmed, so you don’t say anything yet. You just hold her and kiss her softly on the side of her face, until she combs her hair back with her fingers and whispers to you, “I liked that a whole lot.”

You giggle. “Golly, I’m awfully glad,” you manage to choke out.

Now Holtzmann is laughing too, and for a couple of minutes you’re just holding each other and laughing uncontrollably. She gives you a kiss on the nose and then a slower, softer kiss on your mouth. You pull the comforter around her and carry her back to the futon.

You lie down next to her, heads on the same pillow. Holtzmann gets a wicked look in her eye. “If I were operating at maximum capacity, I’d flip you over, deploy the tape, install the plug, and make use of the other two halves of my device.”

You give her an alarmed look.

“But instead you’re just going to have to wonder about what exactly those other things do. For now.” Holtzmann touches her forehead to yours, opens her eyes dramatically wide, and intones “ _SOON_.”

“Not tonight,” you say. You don’t want to undo her recovery.

Holtzmann touches your face, and you just enjoy the warm, blissful sensation of snuggling with her. It’s certainly not as visceral as the sex has been, but it’s somehow more elevating. You want more of this in the future.

A memory brings you back to earth and you have a realization. “Jillian…That day, when you cooked for me. You—you were saying goodbye.”

There’s a pause. Then, her voice rough, she says, “Yeah.”

You sigh, almost tearing up, and hug her. Then you draw back a little and look at her. “So, um...that night...you said something about love. I mean, not 'something.' To be honest, I know it by heart…”

“You do?” she says, voice so small and quiet that you almost don’t hear her. Then she says, “Yeah…I did. Was it too much? I never know when I’ve said something I’m not supposed to. But…” She shrugs and looks away. “That was—is—how I feel.”

There’s turbulence inside you, and you’re not sure what to say.

Holtzmann sighs and stares at the ceiling. “This would all be a lot easier if I had a beer,” she grumbles, but then the words spill out. “Look. Someone once told me that I'm like that stream in England. The Strid. There’s the surface of the water, or there’s the depths. Not deep like first-year philosophy majors, but deep like…past the blind cavefish and down to somewhere really freaky. Deep as in everyone who’s gone into the water has disappeared forever. There's no...no comfortable middle ground that you can wade around in.” She rubs the back of her hand against her chin, still not meeting your eyes. “I don't want to drown people. So I try to keep to the surface. But. Sometimes I can’t.”

You make a face. “So, what, was one of those college girls you made out with a particularly vicious aquatic ecologist or something?”

“Something like that.”

Holtzmann's usual confidence isn't anywhere to be seen, and you almost can't bear it.

“Well, I don’t like her,” you say firmly. “I'm not in danger of drowning. And to be clear, I didn't ask because it's some kind of problem. I just...needed to know. Jillian, tell me whatever you feel like, whenever you feel like it. Hey." You reach for her hand, not too fast, and she grips your fingers. "Hey." You kiss her on the forehead. "If I am being carried down to the watery depths, then there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Holtzmann manages to bring her eyes back to your face. Whatever she sees there must be what she wanted to see, since she draws you in for a long kiss.

When she finally releases you, you take a deep breath. “Normally, I feel like it's not prudent to say anything this early in a relationship. I mean, we haven’t spent much time together, not as _you_ and _me_. Us. But nothing about this adventure, not one thing, has been normal or prudent. And I really love how honest you are, so…” You swallow. “We’re in a state of global equilibrium.” It’s an imperfect analogy, but it’s the best you can come up with.

Holtzmann stares at you. Her face is rigid, as though she’s stopped breathing. Then she blinks rapidly and says, extremely quietly, “For real?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She lights up. There’s a lot—a _lot_ —more kissing, and a lot of cuddling, before you both finally fall asleep, thoroughly entangled.

* * *

You wake up in the morning, with Holtzmann still right there. You’re smiling, and it takes you a moment to establish that last night really happened and wasn’t a dream. “Jillian. How long have you been awake?”

She shrugs in your arms. “A while. I was going to get up and, uh, clean up the lab. But I didn’t want to move.”

“Aw. Let me wake up a little bit, and I’ll help you.”

You get yourself cleaned up (and dressed). Holtzmann puts herself back together, including her pendant, then ties one of her scarves around your neck and smiles. You both get the lab squared away, and then there’s a knock at the door.

“Breakfast,” yells somebody. You think it’s Patty. You hear her go back up the stairs.

You look at Holtzmann, eyebrows raised.

“I got nothin’,” she says. “But if breakfast is at stake, I aim to find out.”

In the mostly-clean room where the party was held, the presence of breakfast is clear—you smell pancakes and bacon and coffee. Patty, Abby, and Erin are scattered around the kitchen, mugs of coffee already on the table.

“Heyyy!” they chorus as you come in. There is a general beam of happiness directed at you and Holtzmann from the other three women.

Oh god. Is this, like, a CONGRATULATIONS ON THE HAVING OF THE SEX breakfast?

You can feel embarrassment rising from your stomach, but Holtzmann is beaming right back at them. You look at her, her dimples, and her sunny smile, and you find the courage to tell your embarrassment to fuck off. You squeeze Holtzmann around the shoulders. “Are you guys going to do this every time…?” you ask. “Because I like pancakes, but…that might be too many flapjacks.”

Holtzmann almost chokes on the glass of orange juice that Erin has just handed her, and Erin nearly chokes on nothing at all. The others howl with laughter.

“See, she’s fitting in just fine,” says Patty, bringing a huge plate of pancakes to the table. “I told you.”

“You did,” says Abby. She sits down with you. “I also got told about your research, thanks to Erin. We’re not going to just hand you a nametag, but if there’s a ‘busting project that Holtzmann will actually let you work on, go for it.”

Holtzmann rubs her hands together. “We’ll cook up some real good stuff, won’t we?”

“Oh, we’ll have fun,” you reply. “I want to learn all about what you’re working on in that lab.”

Holtzmann catches your hand and kisses the back of it. “You can spend as much time as you want in there,” she says.

“Wow. I guess it’s love,” says Abby, and Patty doesn’t even complain about the PDA.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last of the stories that I had ideas for in this series. Should I continue it at some point? I'm not sure...
> 
> I hope the near total lack of kink isn't too disappointing. It's not that I think kink can't be loving (it totally can); just that it was time for a change in how they're connecting with each other. I hope it still worked for you!
> 
> Anyway, I wasn't sure about writing the rest of the Ghostbusters, but it turned out to be fun. As always, sorry if I messed anything up. In particular, the 2016 firehouse floorplan is a total mystery to me, so I just made stuff up.
> 
> <3 and thanks for reading (and commenting)!
> 
> \- ERRATA -  
> [Mary Sherman Morgan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Sherman_Morgan)  
> [Gladys Bentley](http://www.theroot.com/articles/history/2015/02/gladys_bentley_a_lesbian_icon_and_blues_singer_of_the_harlem_renaissance/)  
> [The Strid](http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/bolton-strid)


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